


What They Carried

by HiddenFlame530



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abusive Parents, Backstory, Character Study, F/M, Minor Character Death, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenFlame530/pseuds/HiddenFlame530
Summary: They came alone, or in pairs. They carried their most prized possessions with them. Each made the journey, each chose this path. Each walked it, some proudly, others with great sorrow or shame.The Emperor wants to know why they chose her side.A series of reasons why the students joined the Black Eagle Strike Force, and how they got there.
Relationships: Bernadetta von Varley/Hubert von Vestra, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Kudos: 23





	1. The Gilded Dagger (Hubert)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excuse to wax poetic about different characters and why they would conceivably go "Screw it, let's join the revolution!" on my recruit-everybody run, so enjoy (or not, I'm a writer, not a cop).

Hubert hefts the dagger as he inspects it, sharp eyes closely monitoring every groove and edge. The blade is finely honed, with grooves along the sides to lace it with poison, and the sheath is leather, with the Vestra family crest-a viper with nightshade flowers curling around its' body-inlaid in gold. It's a family heirloom, and the only thing he intends to take from this blasted place. He never liked this drafty, old manor in the first place; it can burn, for all he cares. 

They will ask him why, he's sure of it. Why he killed his own father. Why he stuck by Edelgard's side, knowing the things she'd done. Why he cast aside his own family for the sake of someone else's ideals.

They would not know why, for they had not sworn the sacred oath that he had.

The first time he held the dagger, he was but a boy. Holding his father's hand, he shuffled forward, ceremonial robes of dark green and gold puddling around his feet. His father had given him the knife, telling him "This is your duty, son." before gently nudging him into the grand hall. An assortment of nobles and officials watched as he carefully made his way across the stage, whispering a silent prayer to the Goddess that he would not trip over his own feet. There, at the center of the dais, stood Ionius and Edelgard. She was small even before the experiments slighted her frame, the diadem on her head slipping down every once and a while. The Emperor gently replaced it before similarly nudging his daughter towards Hubert. He'd bowed at her approach, before gingerly unsheathing the dagger and reciting the oath.

"I, Hubert von Vestra, pledge myself to the service of Her Highness, Imperial Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg, just as my father has, and his father before him, and his before him. I am the talons of the imperial eagle, bound to cut down her enemies. I am the wings of the imperial eagle, bound to protect her always. I am the eyes of the imperial eagle, bound to keep vigil over her lands. I will not waver, I will not stray, and so help me, if I ever turn this dagger against Her Highness, may the holy steel pierce me through." 

Having said his piece, he held the edge against his palm. His fingers shook; would he be able to do this? 

Her pale fingers closed over his, and quickly swiped the blade across his pale hand. A line of crimson welled up across his palm as she stepped back and he sheathed the dagger, now marked with his blood. Later, after the ceremony was over, he'd clutched her hand and knelt, thanking her over and over. His father would have gone mad if he'd embarrassed the Vestras, he'd thought. Father was always going on and on about devotion and loyalty, about how his life was the Imperial family's to give or take as they wished.

His father had a duty. He had a duty. Since the beginning of the Empire, the Vestra had sworn themselves to the Imperial family. They had no lands, no holdings, nothing outside of this manor on the palace grounds and a spot beside the Emperor. Without His Majesty, his father was nothing. 

Yet his father had betrayed them anyway.

He'd thrown his lot in with Aegir and the others, even opening the palace gates and sabotaging their defenses from within to allow the Insurrection troops to storm the palace. He and his lady had clutched each other close that dreadful day, back when her hair was still the color of coffee with just a touch too much cream. The screams of the servants as they were murdered, the shouts of the loyalist holdouts falling, one by one. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air. He and Edelgard had managed to sneak out to the palace gardens, where her uncle, Lord Arundel, waited. His eyes were full of worry when he saw his niece, pale-faced and shaken, but he smiled when she ran to him, throwing her thin arms around his waist. "Come, my darling. Your mother-we must reunite you, and you can live with her in the Kingdom until this all is over. You have a step-brother, you know, and I'm sure he'd love to meet you."

Edelgard had looked up, sniffling. "Can Hubert come?" Arundel looked at him, then at the ground. "I'm afraid he can't. Aegir and the others will already be trying to catch us, sweet. Marquis Vestra would be worried sick if his only son went missing." Edelgard turned her head, deep purple eyes gazing forlornly at him, before she broke from his grasp to hug Hubert. As always, he was impressed by both her forwardness and her surprising strength. "My lady, I'm sure we'll meet again. Don't worry about me-I'll be okay." She smiled and stepped into the waiting carriage, set to whisk her and her uncle across the border into Faerghus.

He'd been sad, of course, but also relieved as he watched them go. By the time the troops reached the garden, the Imperial princess was gone, and only he remained, clutching the dagger. Father had rushed forward, clutching him by the shoulders. "Hubert, what have you done!" He'd looked up at his father, and coldly stated the oath he'd taken years before. 

"I, Hubert von Vestra, pledge myself to the service of Her Highness, Imperial Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg, just as my father has, and his father before him, and his-"

The Marquis slapped him. "Stupid boy. Damn me if I didn't drill that stubborn loyalty into you." He'd cried out as his father directed the servants to drag him back to the manor, to lock him in his room. Father kept it barren, on purpose, so he could banish Hubert there when he displeased him. That had been his longest stay yet-months on end. He'd spent most of it trying to understand. He'd done his duty. He'd protected Edelgard. She was safe from the usurpers. So why was he angry?

He was about to find out, as he rapped his knuckles on the door to his father's study, dagger hidden behind his back.

"Enter." His father's voice was thin and reedy, worn after a couple of months on house arrest. Hubert pushed open the dark oak-paneled door to reveal the Marquis' gaunt form, cape hanging loosely off his frame. His hair, once a dark, mossy green like Hubert's own, was now shot through with streaks of white. Hubert felt a slight pang of sympathy for him, quickly squashed by countless childhood memories of his father's venomous words or disapproving gaze.

"I suppose you've come to kill me. The new Emperor wishes to clean house, and the Vestra, naturally, are first in line."

"Oh, the Aegirs and the rest are soon to come. This is a personal matter." Hubert keeps the dagger hidden as he speaks. He's unsure whether or not the elder Vestra would try and fight back, and his father was a decent mage. "Before we get this...unpleasantness...over with, tell me something." His father is silent and still, so he continues. "Why did you betray the Empire?"

The Marquis stiffens. "I did not betray them."

"You were supposed to protect the Imperial family. Instead, you handed them over to those-those demons! It is because of you that Edelgard _is_ the way she is! How can you justify the torture and murder of her siblings? How did you intend to explain this to her?" Hubert's voice rose with every syllable, shaking visibly. "Everything you taught me was in service of the royal family! You drilled it into my head, over and over, that I was their right hand, their shield and sword. You treated me like a weapon, not a child! How can you possibly justify this?"

The Marquis turned to face him. A subtle pain passed over his face before he spoke. "Ionius was weak and impotent. Adrestia needed a new ruler, a strong one, with strong ideals and power to match. They promised us a powerful heir. They did not tell us how they would go about doing so. I groomed you to be Edelgard's right hand because I knew she would be the one to rule. She was not the firstborn, but there was a strength within her that none of her siblings could match. And when she escaped....I worried they might take you instead, my son. If they had inflicted these horrors upon you.....By the time I learned what the others had planned, all I could do was mitigate the damage. Believe me when I say I was deceived. Believe me when I say all I did, to you and to her....it was for Adrestia. For the future."

Hubert stood, silently trying to process what his father had said. It was the closest thing to "I love you" or "I'm sorry" that he'd ever heard from him. His father spread his hands out before him, in a gesture of both placation and surrender. "Do what you must."

Hubert's father swore an oath, that if he ever betrayed the Imperial family, he would die by the holy steel he had given Hubert.

This was the thought Hubert kept in his head, turning it over like a prized stone, as he plunged the dagger into the Marquis' heart.

This is the thought that resurfaces now, as he turns the dagger over in his hands, five long years of war later. The question from Edelgard rings like church bells in his ears as he studies the dried blood staining the blade. He hasn't used it since.

"My father taught me that my life was not my own. The Empire taught me that it was yours. Your Majesty proved that you would use it well. That is why I stood by you, even when my father did-could not." He replaces the dagger in the sheath, and turns to his liege, who smiles faintly, the same strength his father once praised glowing in her eyes.


	2. The Book of Fables (Bernadetta)

Bernadetta searched her shelf, fingers skimming across the assortment of spines, before settling on an old, weathered one. She pulled the aging tome out and hugged it to her chest, inhaling the scent of old paper and leather. The aroma, as fragrant as flowers to a recluse like her, brought back one of the few good memories she had from her childhood.

Her uncle had given her the book when she was young, behind her father's back. Father was always disapproving of the books she read, saying that a 'proper lady' had no need for knowledge beyond how to keep house and please her husband. Her father had a lot of ideas about what a 'proper lady' should be, in fact, and Bernadetta could never meet them all. 

Proper ladies sewed, he said, forcing her to stitch and re-stitch her needlework, even as her fingers bled from gripping the needle. Proper ladies danced gracefully, he said, staring from the sidelines as she tried, for the fiftieth time, to dance a proper quadrille. Proper ladies had tiny waists, he said, as the maid pulled the strings of her corset so tight she could barely breathe. She tried-couldn't they see she was trying-to emulate the princesses in her books, but she was always too clumsy, too impatient, too hasty, too loud. Proper ladies had no opinions beyond those involving fashion and gardening; proper ladies were quiet and demure. Otherwise, she supposed, proper ladies had heads full of dandelion fluff and spiderwebs. They didn't need brains to sit still and look pretty. Her father hated it when she couldn't sit still.

It happened when she was little. She was impatient-her dress too confining, her shoes pinched her feet, she was hungry and tired-and she shifted one too many times in the presence of some noble. Her father gripped his fork so hard she feared it might snap. Excusing himself, he grabbed her by the wrist, ignoring her protests, and dragged her down to the basement. Bernadetta didn't like it there; nobody did. It was dark, and cold, and damp, and host to all sorts of creatures and insects. Even the servants avoided the place if they could, making every excuse not to be sent to fetch a cask of wine or a cheese from the cellars.

Her father knew this, which was exactly why he dragged her there. Wrestling her into an old wooden chair, he bound her wrists and ankles to it, muttering obscenities as he did so. She was terrified, and tried to scream, before he clamped a hand over her mouth. "Insolent wench! This'll teach you to distract our guests." He stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth before walking up the stairs. Her squeals of fear and pain went unnoticed for hours, as she sat in the darkness, trembling.

The rope bit into her limbs and chafed when she moved. She was sore from sitting on the hard-backed chair, and her tears had dried and encrusted themselves on her cheeks. Her muffled cries devolved into whimpers as the vermin scurried over her stocking feet, and then into silence.

She didn't know how long it had been when her father came to fetch her-minutes? hours? days?-but when he did, he took the gag out of her mouth and commanded "Recite."

Voice hoarse from crying, she stuttered "A p-proper lady is obedient, quiet, discreet, graceful, chaste, patient and hard-working. She sews and weaves, she dances and sings, she is a delight to her husband and her family. She does not protest, she is not contrary, she obeys the orders of her b-betters. Her duty is to keep her husband's house and b-bear him many children. She does not waver from this, ever."

"And what have you done to deserve this?"

"I was a d-distraction. I would not sit still when ordered, and I embarrassed the Varley name."

"Will you do this again?"

"N-never."

And so it went. Her father always found some slight sin or imperfection in everything she did, and back into the darkness she went. Once, she had fallen to her knees and asked him why he was doing this when she was trying so hard to be good. He had grabbed her face and hissed "I will teach you to be a good wife and mother if it kills me, Bernadetta von Varley. Your mother, useless and frail as she is, cannot bear me a Goddess-forsaken son, so you are our one hope of attaining status. If we make you a good match, we will be provided for. If not, we are ruined. _Ruined_ , Bernadetta. Do you understand me?"

Her mother was, in fact, frail, but that wasn't the reason she couldn't bear sons. Bernadetta had sharp eyes, and she saw the bruises underneath her mother's makeup, heard the shouting coming from their room. At least once a year, the servants scurried for the doctor, carrying a set of bloodstained sheets. Her father's anger at having lost another potential heir spiraled and the vicious cycle continued.

She would pray to the Goddess, as her father instructed, but it never calmed her. The only thing that did was her books. She lost countless hours immersed in tales of knights and princesses, dragons and pegasi. Sometimes, she fell asleep in the middle of a tale, and her dreams were of her, mounted on a great steed, bow in hand. Shimmering arrows materialized as she drew back the string, and flew into the hearts of the shadows surrounding her. Always, she was victorious. Always, she awoke to find herself still in the same bed, in the same house. Always, the sting of her father's hand across her face drew her away from her daydreams.

She began to actually like the gilded cage she existed in. The manor was her entire world; the pond was her ocean, the garden her forest, the courtyard her desert. Her room was her sanctuary, her place of refuge. Here, she was safe with her books and her tales. Here, she was invincible.

Her mother made the decision after the seventh miscarriage. The servants had slipped into her room as she slept, gently lifting her off her bed and depositing her into a sack. They paid one of the travelling merchants to make an extra stop at Garreg Mach, and her mother watched as her daughter was borne away from her before the sun rose. Wiping a few tears from her eyes, the countess turned back to the manor, shutting the doors behind her. A few hours later, the doctor was called for again-a shattered wrist, this time. The Countess' embroidery was never the same.

In the end, her father's desire to make a proper lady out of her did kill him. He went mad when he was placed under house arrest, and the news of Edelgard's ascension just about gave him an apoplexy. She and Hubert had gone to see if he would see reason, his hands over her trembling ones, his face steady but filled with rage. She had broken down and told him everything, and the look in his eyes was like Ailell had opened up and swallowed Fodlan whole. "And Count Varley has been doing this for years? This...this is unacceptable. I knew he was corrupt, but this is too far." He clenched his fists, a few stray glyphs orbiting him.

The carriage had stopped in front of the estate, the servants swarming them like flies. Hubert had stepped out, face dark, and the genuflecting was almost impressive. A few of the maids recognized her, whispering among themselves about how much she'd grown. One of them stopped in front of them, curtsying, and whispered "You may not want to go in there, my lady. Milord is...unwell since his arrest. He-he runs about in his pajamas, and he mutters about potential suitors for you, even though you aren't here."

Bernadetta cleared her throat and spoke with a wavering voice. "We-we're here to see if my father-If Count Varley will see reason and join our cause. Please, let us pass." The maid curtsied and shuffled out of the way. Hand in hand, they strode forward, pushing open the doors. 

The lamps had either gone out or been doused. The furniture was covered in drapes and sheets, and piles of dust and cobwebs lay everywhere. The manor seemed deserted, as if no one had lived here in a long time. Hubert summoned a small ball of fire, lighting up the space, and peered into the shadows. 

There was a strange muttering. ".....too bright.....can't let them see...." A man shambled out of the darkness, pale-faced and gaunt, dirty clothes hanging off his frame. Bernadetta started when she realized it was her father.

"Father?" The Count looked up, eyes glazed over. "Father, it's me. Bernadetta."

"Berna...detta.....came home to me....." He lurched forward, and Bernadetta's hand went to the sword at her hip. It trembled slightly, causing the weapon to rattle in its' sheath. The Count perked up at the sound. "......you carry a sword....my daughter....."

Hubert stepped forward, blocking the Count's view of his daughter. "Count Varley. We have a proposal for you." The man peered at him, trying to puzzle out who he was. "Ah....the Vestra boy.....a decent match, but not the best...."

"Not a proposal for marriage. For the war. As the former Minister of Religion, you have sway over the remaining adherents of the Seiros faith within Adrestia. Right now, many are raising arms against us, and Her Majesty wishes to avoid using force if possible. If you can be swayed to our side, we may be able to convince them to stand down peacefully." Hubert extended a gloved hand. "It is your choice, Count Varley, but it would bring you more freedom than you currently have."

The Count froze. "My Bernadetta....fights in a war?....." Hubert stiffened, bristling with indigantion. "As a matter of fact, yes. Your daughter has been indispensable to us, both on and off the battlefield. She is the most skilled archer I have ever seen, and her diplomatic prowess is surprising, to say the least-"

There was a flash of steel and Hubert crumpled to the ground, clutching his head. A gash, welling with blood, was carved into the side of his skull. Bernadetta now saw why her father had been hiding in the shadows-he grasped a fireplace poker in one hand. Panting, his wild eyes fixated on her. "Bernadetta.....come home to me.....Do not let this.....heretic....poison you...." He began to shuffle towards her, and she froze as surely as if a stray Blizzard had stuck her to the ground.

"Father....I....I...." She couldn't speak. She couldn't move. She felt the walls closing in, heard the scurrying of mice and smelt the damp and cold of the basement again. Her breathing became quick, the air barely reaching her lungs before leaving again. Her grip on her sword hilt tightened, but she found herself unable to draw it.

He laughed, a croaking, wheezing, dry thing that tore out of his throat. "Dear, sweet Bernadetta....you could never raise a hand to strike me..." Her eyes went to Hubert, bleeding on the floor. Her mind went to her mother, bleeding onto the sheets, then to the knights and princesses of her stories. She saw the illustrations in her mind's eye-the evil wizard, cackling madly, the dashing knight, on death's door, the helpless damsel reaching for the sword-

Her father froze as the tip of her rapier pressed into the folds of his throat. A single drop of blood briefly pooled there before trickling downward. His eyes narrowed. "How....how dare you.....wretched girl...."

"I-I am not the wretched one, Father. Look around y-you." Though her voice was tremulous, she continued on. "Your house is in ruins. You've b-been stripped of your titles. Mother disappeared at the beginning of the w-w-war. You call me a wretch, yet you shamble around in-in dirty clothing, rambling like a m-madman. Please, j-just stand down. D-don't make this any harder than it n-needs to be."

His eyes widened with each successive word, and by the time she finished, his jaw had just about hit the floor, as if he couldn't believe his daughter would ever speak against him. A strange, strangled noise came from his gaping mouth as he wrenched himself away from the point of her sword and raised the fireplace poker again. "How.....how dare you....HOW DARE YOU!"

She shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, Hubert was sitting up, and the remnants of his spell had faded. Her father's lifeless body lay on the floor, pale and wan. Shaking, she fell to her knees, hugging herself and hiccuping with sobs. It was over. Should she be horrified or relieved?

She still hadn't figured out how she should feel about her father's passing. The weight on her chest had lifted since that fateful day, and her grief was only matched by the onslaught of memories of his abuses. However, as she settled on the page she was looking for, she felt at peace with herself for the first time in a while. Her fingers traced the drawing-a lady on horseback, clutching a shining bow.

"Your Majesty....Edelgard. I always admired your strength, and I sought to emulate you from the very beginning. It was because of you and the other Eagles that I realized that what my father told me wasn't true-that I didn't have to live up to his expectations, or anyone else's. That I was worthy of love and respect no matter how 'flawed' I was." She closed the book, a faint smile gracing her features before she turned to face the emperor and Hubert. 

"Thank you....for showing me how to be strong in my own way. Now, I want to use that strength to help protect you and everyone else."

Every time she looked at the drawing, the lady looked more and more like herself.


End file.
